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Anthony Obi Ogbo

The Biafran Genocide – The Hell I Went Through as a Child

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5 years ago

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Yet, here I am still standing, pledging allegiance to NIGERIA with all sense of patriotism—a nation still being governed by some of the leaders that masterminded the devastating genocide I survived 53 years ago.

Evacuating a large family from the village, Achala, to remote farmland called Eziobibi, almost twenty miles away on foot, and through near inaccessible road-paths, and under severe weather conditions was not a joke. I was seven at the time, and I walked with a loaded bag unaided. Bomb booms and some crackling sounds of artilleries rattled my nerves as they loomed from afar. This was a flight for life and concessions for being a kid were off the table.

My immediate younger sister was five and was on her feet too. I was not carrying a time clock, but a journey set out in the wee hours through the sunset would have exceeded twelve hours. We made it on foot, and for the records – I was seven, and my sister was five.

Ever since the death of Ikemba Odumegwu Ojukwu who led this war, the print, electronic and social media have been agog with analysis and historical compositions about this leader, and his unfulfilled dreams of Biafran nationhood. With commentaries controlled by emotions and different socio-political interests, it becomes difficult at times to comprehend the physical and psychological realities of three-year bloody combat that decimated the people of Eastern Nigeria, their culture, and their prospects as a region.

Nonetheless, the most compelling opinion remains an eyewitness account of the individuals who fought in the region called Biafra

Psychologically speaking, it is obvious that different experiences underscore different analyses. For instance, those Nigerians who lived during this war and never experienced it speak from Google and Wikipedia. Those who remained overseas while the Igbo people in Eastern Nigeria underwent a genocide would speak from Timelife documentaries, and those who saw, or fought the war in Biafra would speak with emotions or anger.

Nonetheless, the most compelling opinion remains an eyewitness account of the individuals who fought in the region called Biafra; those victims who survived the refugee camps, who thrived in the forest region of various villages for thirty months under thunderous sounds of shelling booms, and rapid-fire of Russian-made raffles.

Yes, I was a child victim of the Biafran civil war, and my testimony came from memory rather than Google. As a 6-year old before the war and a 9-year old after, who also survived the post-war era, it is sometimes difficult to sit on the same panel of discussion with peers who lived normal lives in the same period in the war-free Nigerian territory. They would make you feel guilty or look at you as some unpatriotic nincompoop – a Biafran loyalist that is. Sometimes they argue from the rear in a sheer fallacy or even recite doctored Internet information or adulterated opinions retrieved from nowhere.

Without reaching any search tools, I can speak from the memory of this horrible past that I saw it all with my naked eyes. I was in Kindergarten when the initial war campaign started, and Coal City was under bombardment by fighter and bomber jets operated by White mercenaries.  Trenches were dug in the schools to provide safe areas against fighter plane attacks. The teachers would always remove our white shirts, and throw us into these trenches anytime the bomb alerts went off. This was the initial stage.

As a child during that war, I witnessed dead bodies, wounded soldiers, hungry and sick refugees eager to eat just about anything. In Achala, Awka province, where I survived the war, refugees trooped in thousands, and relief workers fed them with cornmeal. A bowl a day could do for a person, and when supplies ran out, refugees walked around the town for anything chewable. I saw refugees feed on lizards, insects, rats, and just about anything that could ease a devastating need for survival. I also saw sick ones who got so sick out of malnutrition or other strange diseases. This was the time I knew about Kwashiorkor – severe energy malnutrition typified by insufficient protein consumption.  It was a sorry sight to see my fellow kids crawling with protruded bellies, and emaciated body frames visibly revealing their ribs.

As a child, I stood awake with others, sleepless at nights for fear of unexpected bombardment. I knew what assault rifles looked like; saw how bombers descended from nowhere and dropped bombs at market places. Yes, I can recall the day we were playing kite in grand dad’s gigantic compound and two bomber planes descended from nowhere and flew over. The noise alone could till a rocky ground – then as these flying equipment vanished into a cloudy sky, a shocking sound trailed. Moments later we learned that a busy Otuocha Market was bombed, and bodies were crushed like roaches – eloquent of the fact that the Nigerian troops targeted civilians. This was just a tip out of a devastating 30-month horrific experience as a child who did not go to the war field but suffered it all.

Kids went to school barefooted, while others stayed home because their parents could not afford tuition, books, and uniforms.

Yet the worst was yet to come after the war in 1970. We were hauled back to a city we left three years back. A city now devastated by the war was left without basic amenities. School buildings, churches, and homes were torn apart by shelling and other destructive devices of the war. I attended school under the trees at times and classes shifted at intervals to secure a comfortable shadowed spot. Pupils brought their desks to school because there was just none at the time.

Kids went to school barefooted, while others stayed home because their parents could not afford tuition, books, and uniforms.

Now, this was the war I saw and survived. Yet it is more distressing to have gone through this ordeal as a child without a single post-war traumatic therapy. I could just close my eyes and think of what it is like for a young child to be in traumatic situations. He can feel helpless and passive. He could have the most difficulty with their intensely physical and emotional reactions; he could just lose out in the process of coping with ongoing threats to his survival; he could not afford to trust, relax or fully explore his feelings, ideas, or interests.

Yet, here I am still standing, pledging allegiance to NIGERIA with all sense of patriotism—a nation still being governed by some of the leaders that masterminded the devastating genocide I survived almost 50 years ago.

Young trauma victims often come to believe there is something inherently wrong with them; that they are at fault, unlovable, hateful, helpless, and unworthy of protection and love. Such feelings lead to poor self-image, self-abandonment, and self-destructiveness. Ultimately, these feelings could leave them vulnerable to subsequent trauma.

Yet, here I am still standing, pledging allegiance to NIGERIA with all sense of patriotism—a nation still being governed by some of the leaders that masterminded the devastating genocide I survived almost 53 years ago.

Now, for those who do not understand what this means to an average IGBO man, and who would sit down and utter insensitive analysis about the realities of this war without consideration of the unnoticed ravages of its outcome; I will say bring it on and I will eat you raw!

♦ Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D. is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. Article included Excerpts from my documentary, Biafran War – What I Saw  With My Naked Eyes (2011). Initially published in the West African Pilot, May 30, 2020 >>>

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Anthony Obi Ogbo

Texas’ 18th Congressional District Runoff: Amanda Edwards Deserves This Seat

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2 days ago

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December 18, 2025

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“Her persistence and long-term investment make a clear case: she has earned this opportunity.“ —Anthony Obi Ogbo

In the special election to fill Texas’s 18th Congressional District, no candidate won a majority on November 4, 2025, leading to a January 31, 2026, runoff between Democratic frontrunners Christian Menefee and Amanda Edwards. Menefee, Harris County Attorney, led the field with roughly 29% of the vote, while former Houston City Council member Edwards finished second with about 26%. Both are vying to represent a district left vacant after the death of U.S. Rep. Sylvester Turner.

The 18th Congressional District is far more than a geographic area. Anchored in Houston’s historic Black communities, it is a political and cultural stronghold shaped by civil rights history, faith institutions, and grassroots activism. Sheila Jackson Lee represented this district for nearly three decades (1995–2024), becoming more than a legislator—she was a constant presence at churches, funerals, protests, and community milestones. For residents, her leadership carried spiritual weight, reflecting stewardship, protection, and a deep, almost pastoral guardianship of the district. Her tenure symbolized continuity, cultural pride, and a profound connection with the people she served.

Houstonians watched as Jackson Lee entered the 2023 Houston mayoral race, attempting to transition from Congress to city leadership. Despite high-profile endorsements, including outgoing Mayor Sylvester Turner and national Democratic figures, she lost the December 9, 2023, runoff to State Senator John Whitmire by a wide margin. Following that defeat, Jackson Lee filed to run for re-election to her U.S. House seat, even as Edwards—who had briefly joined the mayoral race before withdrawing—remained in the congressional primary.

At that time, Jackson Lee’s health was visibly declining, yet voters still supported her, honoring decades of service. She defeated Edwards in the 2024 Democratic primary before announcing her battle with pancreatic cancer. Her passing in July 2024 left the seat vacant.

Edwards, already a candidate, sought to fill the seat, but timing and party rules intervened. Because Jackson Lee died too late for a regular primary, Harris County Democratic Party precinct chairs selected a replacement nominee. Former Houston Mayor Sylvester Turner, a retired but widely respected figure, narrowly edged out Edwards for the nomination, effectively blocking her despite her prior campaigning efforts. Turner won the general election but died in March 2025, triggering a special election in 2025, in which Edwards advanced to a runoff.

The January 31, 2026, runoff will hinge on turnout, coalition-building, and key endorsements. Both candidates led a crowded November field but fell short of a majority, with Menefee narrowly ahead. Endorsements such as State Rep. Jolanda Jones’ support for Edwards could consolidate key Democratic blocs, particularly among Black women and progressive voters. In a heavily Democratic district where voter confusion and turnout patterns have been inconsistent, the candidate who best mobilizes supporters and unites constituencies is likely to prevail.

Amanda Edwards’ case is compelling. Although both candidates share similar values and qualifications, her claim rests on dedication, consistency, and timing that have been repeatedly denied. She pursued this seat with focus and purpose, maintaining a steady commitment to the district and its future. Her path was interrupted by the prolonged political ambitions of Jackson Lee and Turner—figures whose stature reshaped the race but delayed generational transition. Edwards did not step aside; she remained visible, engaged, and prepared. In a moment demanding both continuity and renewal, her persistence and long-term investment make a clear case: she has earned this opportunity.

This race comes down to trust, perseverance, and demonstrated commitment. Amanda Edwards has consistently shown up for the district, even when political circumstances repeatedly delayed her chance. Her dedication reflects readiness, respect for the electorate, and an unwavering commitment to service. Voting for Amanda Edwards is not only justified—it is the right choice for Houston’s 18th Congressional District.

♦Publisher of the Guardian News, Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D., is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015)  and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us

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Anthony Obi Ogbo

When Power Doesn’t Need Permission: Nigeria and the Collapse of a Gambian Coup Plot

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6 days ago

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December 14, 2025

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“Power does not always announce itself; sometimes it prevents chaos simply by being present.“ —Anthony Obi Ogbo

A failed coup attempt in The Gambia reveals how Nigeria’s understated military, diplomatic, and intelligence influence continues to shape West African stability—without spectacle, but with unmistakable authority.

The attempted destabilization of The Gambia—quickly neutralized before it could mature into a full-blown coup—served as a quiet but powerful reminder of how regional power is exercised in West Africa today. While social media narratives raced ahead with exaggerated claims and half-truths, the reality underscored a familiar pattern: Nigeria remains the pivotal stabilizing force in the sub-region, especially when the democratic order is threatened.

Unlike the dramatic coups that have unsettled parts of the Sahel, the Gambian plot never gained momentum. It faltered not by accident, but by deterrence. Intelligence sharing, diplomatic signaling, and the unmistakable shadow of regional consequences helped shut the door before conspirators could walk through it. At the center of that deterrence was Nigeria—acting through ECOWAS mechanisms, bilateral security coordination, and its long-established role as the region’s security backbone.

Nigeria’s influence in The Gambia is not a new phenomenon. From the 2017 post-election crisis, when Nigerian forces formed the backbone of the ECOWAS Mission in The Gambia (ECOMIG), to ongoing security cooperation, Abuja has consistently demonstrated that unconstitutional power grabs will not be tolerated in its neighborhood. The recent coup attempt—however embryonic—was measured against that historical memory. The message was clear: the region has seen this movie before, and Nigeria knows how it ends.

What is notable is not just Nigeria’s military weight, but its strategic restraint. There were no dramatic troop movements or chest-thumping announcements. Instead, Nigeria’s power was exercised through quiet pressure, coordinated intelligence, and credible threat of collective action. That subtlety is often overlooked in an era obsessed with spectacle, but it is precisely what makes Nigerian influence effective. Power does not always announce itself; sometimes it prevents chaos simply by being present.

The Gambian coup flop also exposes a wider truth about West Africa’s information ecosystem. Rumors travel faster than facts, and failed plots are often retrofitted into heroic or conspiratorial narratives. Yet the absence of tanks on the streets and the continuity of constitutional governance speak louder than viral posts.

In a region grappling with democratic backsliding, Nigeria’s role remains decisive. The Gambian episode reinforces a hard reality for would-be putschists: while coups may succeed in pockets of instability, they are far less likely to survive in spaces where Nigeria’s regional influence—political, military, and diplomatic—still draws firm red lines.

The failed coup attempt in The Gambia is a blunt reminder that real power in West Africa does not always announce itself with tanks, gunfire, or televised bravado. Sometimes it arrives quietly—and when it does, it often carries Nigeria’s imprint. While social media chased rumors and inflated conspiracy theories, the reality was far less dramatic and far more decisive: the plot collapsed because the regional cost of success was simply too high.

Unlike the coups that have torn through parts of the Sahel, the Gambian attempt never found momentum. It was stopped not by chance, but by deterrence. Intelligence sharing, diplomatic signaling, and the unspoken certainty of ECOWAS intervention closed the door before it could open. At the center of that deterrence stood Nigeria, operating through regional institutions and long-established security relationships. Abuja did not need to issue threats; its history spoke for itself.

Nigeria’s influence in The Gambia is rooted in memory. In 2017, Nigerian forces formed the backbone of the ECOWAS Mission, which enforced the electoral will and prevented a democratic collapse. That precedent still haunts would-be putschists. They know how this story ends, and they know who writes the final chapter.

What makes Nigeria’s power effective is not just military superiority, but strategic restraint. There were no dramatic troop movements or chest-thumping speeches—only quiet pressure, coordinated intelligence, and credible readiness. In a region addicted to spectacle, this restraint is often mistaken for weakness. It is not.

The Gambian coup flop also exposes the toxicity of the information space, where fiction outruns fact. But governance is not decided online. It is decided by institutions, alliances, and forces that do not need permission to matter. The message to plotters is brutal and clear: coups may succeed where chaos reigns, but they rarely survive where Nigeria still draws the red lines.

♦Publisher of the Guardian News, Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D., is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015)  and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us

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Burna Boy, the Spotlight, and the Cost of Arrogance

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3 weeks ago

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November 27, 2025

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“Humility is the anchor that keeps greatness from drifting into delusion.“ —Anthony Obi Ogbo

Fame is a dangerous flame. It warms, it dazzles, and if you hold it too close, it burns straight through the layers of judgment that keep a person grounded. In its hottest glow, fame convinces artists that applause is permanent, talent is immunity, and fans are disposable. Arrogance doesn’t erupt overnight—it grows in the quiet corners of unchecked power, in entourages that never challenge, and in audiences that forgive too easily. But the world has a way of reminding every superstar of one brutal truth: no one is too famous to fall.

This season, Burna Boy is learning that lesson in real time. The Grammy-winning giant—hailed globally as the “African Giant”—is now facing one of the most dramatic reputational meltdowns of his career. Five U.S. arena dates on his NSOW Tour have reportedly been cancelled due to poor ticket sales and a fierce wave of fan backlash following his Denver debacle. What was supposed to be another triumphant American tour has spiraled into an expensive public relations disaster.

It all ignited on November 12, 2025, at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Colorado. The show started late. Energy was high. Then Burna Boy spotted a woman in the front row who had fallen asleep. Instead of performing through it, he halted the show, called her out publicly, ordered her partner to “take her home,” and refused to continue until they left. The humiliation would have been bad enough on its own. But later reports revealed she wasn’t drunk or uninterested—she was exhausted, mourning the recent death of her daughter’s father.

The internet demanded empathy. Burna responded with contempt. A sleeping fan, he said, “pisses me the f*** off.” And then the line that detonated the backlash: “I never asked anybody to be my fan.” Those ten words may become the most expensive sentence of his career.

This wasn’t an isolated flare-up. Burna Boy has long danced on the edge of arrogance, and the public has kept receipts. In 2019, he halted a performance in Atlanta to eject a fan who wasn’t dancing—handing the man money and telling him to leave. In Lagos in 2021, a fan who attempted an innocent stage hug was shoved off by security, sparking outrage over excessive force and coldness.

The following year was worse. In 2022, his security team was accused of firing shots in a nightclub after a woman allegedly rejected him, injuring multiple patrons and triggering legal headaches that trailed him for months. Fast-forward to January 2023: at his “Love, Damini” concert in Lagos, he arrived hours late, berated the crowd, and left fans feeling disrespected and insulted.

By 2025, the pattern was undeniable. He kicked a fan offstage during a New Year’s performance. Months later, he brought a Colorado concert to a standstill until an “unengaged” couple was escorted out. The incidents piled up, painting a portrait of an artist increasingly out of touch with the people who made him a global phenomenon.

This latest incident, however, has delivered the sharpest consequence yet: the U.S. market—a notoriously unforgiving arena—has pushed back.
Cancelled shows. Sparse crowds. Boycotts. Refund demands.
For perhaps the first time, an African artist of Burna Boy’s magnitude is experiencing a full-force American-style public accountability storm.

If African entertainers are paying attention, they should treat this moment as a case study in how fame can be mismanaged.

The first lesson: Fan value is sacred. Fans are not props. They are not subjects. They are not inconveniences in an artist’s emotional universe. They are customers, supporters, ambassadors, and—most importantly—the foundation on which every stage, every award, and every paycheck rests.

The second: Empathy is not optional. A superstar who cannot pause long enough to consider that a fan might be grieving, ill, exhausted, or battling something unseen is a superstar who has forgotten the humanity at the core of all art.

The third: Professionalism is currency. Arriving late, publicly shaming fans, halting shows, and weaponizing power in moments of irritation are choices that corrode trust. And once trust is broken, even a global superstar can watch ticket sales collapse in real-time.

Burna Boy is an extraordinary artist—brilliant, groundbreaking, and influential. His musical legacy is secure. But greatness in artistry is not the same as greatness in character. Fame tests the latter far more than it rewards it. And the spotlight, no matter how bright, does not protect anyone from the consequences of their own behavior.Humility is the anchor that keeps greatness from drifting into delusion. Burna Boy’s current storm is a brutal reminder that talent without restraint can become tyranny, and fame without introspection can become a curse. Artists rise because people believe in them, invest in them, and support them. When that respect is abused, loyalty evaporates. The lesson is stark: the higher the pedestal, the harder the fall—and the fall always comes. What matters is not the applause you command, but the humanity you maintain long after the music stops.

♦Publisher of the Guardian News, Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D., is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015)  and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us

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